


Rumors

by yosgay



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Ghost Hunters, Haunting, M/M, every terrifying thing the swamp has to offer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26257372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yosgay/pseuds/yosgay
Summary: “Could check it out,” Charles says, low under his breath, how he talks when it’s for only Arthur’s ears. “No harm in it.”They both know Lemoyne don’t need ghosts to scare anybody. A trip long south means half a dozen ways to die, and old wives’ tales don’t mean a thing.All the same, Arthur finds himself nodding his head yes, for only Charles’s eyes.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 1
Kudos: 55





	Rumors

**Author's Note:**

> been wanting to write charthur for a thousand years... love these men with all my heart
> 
> this was my piece for [bury me not](https://twitter.com/TheRedDeadZine), a red dead zine!

Over a cup of lukewarm coffee, Arthur’s face twists up in a scowl. 

“No truth to it.” Around the bitter dredge of another sip, he adds, “Never is.”

Pearson wipes greasy hands on a greasy apron.

“What’s the matter, Mister Morgan? Ain’t scared of a little ghost story, are ya?”

Arthur waves off the haughty way of him, waves away the empty dare of a man who never could find no upper hand. 

“Only thing that scares me is a poisoning from that slop you call stew, Mister  _ Pearson _ .”

Pearson huffs his annoyance and busies himself back behind the wooden counter that’s always been too little for him, forehead creased as old leather. More insulted than he ought to be, given that he started the teasing.

“Could check it out,” Charles says, low under his breath, how he talks when it’s for only Arthur’s ears. “No harm in it.”

A waste of time. They both know Lemoyne don’t need ghosts to scare anybody. It’s already got every buzzing, growling, feral thing in the swamp that wants you dead — and that’s besides them Raider boys. A trip long south means half a dozen ways to die, and old wives’ tales don’t mean a thing.

All the same, Arthur finds himself nodding his head yes, for only Charles’s eyes. 

They turn their backs to camp, make their way back to the horses.

“Ain’t no ghosts down in that swamp,” Arthur calls over his shoulder with a hard point of his finger. “Just men. Men with guns.” 

Whatever Charles thinks of that, the whole ride out he doesn’t say.

* * *

Goddamn Lemoyne Raiders. Dense as the lead in their guns. 

Sneaking ain’t like them, but they’ve gotta be close behind after that little tussle at the state border. Only explanation for it.  _ It _ being the itch on Arthur’s neck, pricking his hair up while they ride. Tree cover’s dense enough here. But if they  _ was _ hiding, no doubt it’d be right next to a gator. 

Charles would know if they was followed, besides. 

They’ve doubled back twice to prove it. Seen only two sets of their own fresh tracks, which, now that Arthur thinks on it, is curious of itself. They haven’t passed a soul since the sky started bleeding color, sun low and shadows long. Seems it’s just the two of them out here. 

None of that stops them both looking over their shoulders. 

When the evening fog starts rolling in, thick as souring stew, Charles brings Taima to a slow trot.

“We should make camp,” he says, just loud enough to hover over the dying birdcalls. Arthur smacks a mosquito off his arm, and he adds, bemused, “Keep the bugs away.” 

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Arthur mutters. “Lead the way, Mister Smith.”

And he does.

They ride off the meager path and into the trees, the big beasts of them too warped and bark too thick to be like any trees Arthur’s seen before, and what they find is a little space between them, as dry as they could ask for in Bluewater Marsh. The fire takes some doing. More than either of them would like to admit. Even then, the weak thing is mostly white smoke. 

Once Arthur’s had his fill of cold beans and waiting, he stands to his feet.

“On with it, then,” he says.

Charles’s eyes stay on his meal.

“Ghosts only come out at night, right? That’s what all them stories say.”

Nothing but silence and hot points of fire pass in the air between them, for a time. Charles puts his food down. Folds his hands and sets his eyes on the flames.

With an impatient spread of his hands, Arthur huffs out a sigh.

“Something on your mind, then?”

“Just think maybe you should start taking this a little more seriously.”

He does his level best not to dismiss it outright. Doesn’t make a habit of arguing with Charles Smith, especially on something he’s got his mind set to.

“Okay,” Arthur settles. “You think there’s something out there, then? Some ghoul, terrorizing the townsfolk?”

“There’s more to this world than we can explain, Arthur,” says Charles. “Remember that.”

Gets a big, booming laugh out of him, that does. One that scares half those calling birds out of their trees.

And then, quicker than he can blink, Charles is up and the distance is closed, one big hand pressed over Arthur’s mouth as if to put the sound back in.

And right in his ear, only just above those same birds, “Hear that?”

Arthur does.

A woman crying.

* * *

Goddamn swamp water.

In his boots, his clothes, his  _ mouth _ for chrissakes — a mouthful of it tasting worse than rotten meat. Feels about as soaking wet as the rest of him in open air, sweating a lake of his own in the blanket heat of the marsh. 

Another thing to hate about Lemoyne.

His shirt’s stuck to his back and his leg’s starting to cramp something awful, but he’s not making to move a muscle. Charles lifts one finger to his lips and Arthur takes the cue. Opens his ears past buzzing bugs and gurgling water.

Wet, heaving sobs, edging on up towards hysterical. 

“What’re we waiting for?” says Arthur, demanding as a whisper can be. “We gonna sneak around or  _ help _ the poor woman?”

Charles and more of his hesitating. Arthur’s never seen the man so careful.

“We don’t know what that is, Arthur. It could be a... trap.”

But that’s a risk he’ll take, already following his ears where they’re off sloshing through the marshlands.

* * *

Arthur coos out to her how he knows. How he’d calm a spooked horse. Walking up slow as a tamer, empty palms out, open and disarming. _ It’s alright, shush now, we don’t mean you no harm. _ Saying it mostly to himself, at a point. Can’t hardly hear it over the wailing. Charles is there at his flank, the whole big, silent bulk of him. His one hand up. Other on his sidearm.

They walk on through the muck, the ground sucking at their boots as they go. She’s loud enough to wake whatever dead surely lie here, them following the noise as much as they are the glow of her fire in the fog. Strong fire, too; stronger than the two of them could manage here, and ain’t that curious.

Curious enough to get one open palm inching on down towards his belt. Still one in the air, still Arthur yelling, " Hello?" Calling, " Ma’am, are you hurt?" Her getting louder, them getting closer.

When the clearing opens up enough to see her proper, the white of her dress glowing in firelight and moonlight’s enough to send a shiver up his spine — enough to make him second-guess every ghost story he's heartily dismissed. But step after step she comes into view, and she’s as human as him or Charles. Hunched over, head in her hands, whether her long, matted hair is brown from the roots or the mud, Arthur can’t be sure. 

He calls out to her again, “Miss?”

And she looks up, eyes alarming in their sharpness, their  _ dryness _ , like she weren’t just crying loud enough to wake St. Dennis. Sees their faces, and her mouth closes up like a puppet’s strings cut. The dark expression on her face is one he couldn’t begin to name, but still so young that it’s Arthur’s turn to hesitate. Charles’s turn to bite out a curse.

Arthur waits a second too long before her arm whips out, quicker than hell, and the meat of his shoulder goes white-hot and wet before she takes off running. Arthur hurls out a curse to match. 

Just bait on the line, she was.

Not a second passes before Charles starts shooting.

Two shots to his left, another to their right — and that’s when Arthur sees they’re surrounded.

Hell, they might as well be ghosts for all the noise they made, monsters out of the monstrous trees — but they’ll die the same death as any other man.

Arthur pulls out his pistol and between the two of them, the bastards don’t stand a chance.

* * *

Half a dozen bodies lay dead in the swamps, each one of them shot full of holes. More food for the gators — provided they like lead. Half a clip to put down each of them, no sound but guttural screams with every hit. Less human than he’s ever seen, but if he had any doubts that they  _ was _ men, the bullets proved that fact for them both. 

“Creepy  _ bastards _ ,” Arthur spits, leaned up against the rot of a log, rag pressed hard to his shoulder to stem the blood flow. Wound’s shallow enough, but it’ll still take some doing. Some kind of infection’s surely the last thing he needs.

“Men with guns, huh?” says Charles, wry, mud and blood clouding the clear sky-blue of his shirt.

“Only thing worse,” says Arthur. “Women with knives.”

Wrings a laugh out of him, at least.

It’s more than Arthur can offer himself. With Charles this close, his heartbeat's still a fast trot away from a gallop.

With more triumph than he feels, Arthur adds, “Told you them stories was just stories.”

Charles pours some whiskey on a rag. 

“You did,” he concedes. “You told me so.”

Arthur’s even a half-step away from gloating when Charles presses the soaking thing right into his wound, and Arthur sees goddamn  _ stars _ .

“ _ Christ _ ,” he hisses out, right between grit teeth.  _ “Warn _ a man first.”

A smile, then. Small and bright as the moon above them.

“Thought you were too busy being right.”

And Arthur’s just about to tell him what he thinks of that, when they both stop cold their bickering.

Charles murmurs, “You hear that?”

_ Hell, not again. _

* * *

This time, they see her first.

This one’s not crying. Not yelling for help neither, no panic in her voice. She’s just talking. Telling some story. Out on the — _ on _ the lake? _Wait, that ain’t right_ _ — _

They walk up slower, one eye tied behind their backs this time. Palms full this time. 

Arthur calls out to her, the whole glowing, otherworldly mist of her — and sure as that same moon up in the sky, she vanishes before their very eyes.

Arthur opens up his mouth. Closes it again. Can’t quite wrestle out anything to say, blinking fast to right his vision.

Charles, on the other hand, is looking about as peaceful as a spring lake.

“Huh.” All he says. 

Arthur throws up his hands.

“I’ve had  _ enough _ of these godforsaken swamps,” he spits, shoving his sidearm back in its holster, hard. “First the undead, now some disappearing act — what’s next, a damn  _ ghost train?” _

Charles’s face goes stony-serious. “You know, there’s actually rumors of — ” 

Already stomping his way on back to their fire, Arthur snaps, “I don’t even wanna  _ know.” _

**Author's Note:**

> was this just a glorified bfu au? ...perhaps


End file.
